Needing Him
by Emma of the TARDIS
Summary: There were some things John knew Sherlock would never get. Such as why he was talking to his tombstone. It didn't matter that Sherlock wouldn't hear him; he needed it. Post-Reichenbach. Strong language and mentions of suicide/self harm. Johnlock in my own, twisted way. Working towards Mystrade.
1. Chapter 1

There were some things John knew Sherlock would never get. Such as why he was talking to his tombstone. It didn't matter that Sherlock wouldn't hear him; he needed it.

He hated the way the headstone reflected everything. To John, it was like Sherlock was still watching the world. He was still able to know everything about a person from what they wore to the cemetery. Looking at his reflection, he wondered what Sherlock would see?

He'd see the stains on his shirt and know he'd hadn't done laundry in days. He'd see the chips in the nails and know he'd been biting at them like a child. He'd see things on John that John didn't notice. He'd see John touching the headstone and wonder why. For someone with the brain the size of a planet, Sherlock was terrible at feelings.

John wasn't so good at them. The past months had been a special hell for him. Afghanistan had been a hell, obviously. His shoulder gave a little throb of approval. But physical pain was easy. The hardest part of being in the war was being at home. The nightmares and the fear of sleep. But then, somehow, he found Sherlock.

Sherlock was like no one John had ever met. He was simply more than John could ever put into words. Working with him had slowly pulled John out of the darkness that he'd been in since his return. He left as though he owed Sherlock his life.

John didn't know what he felt for Sherlock. He was more than a friend, but not a lover. They never even toed that line. Not that John was gay, but there was a reason all those girlfriends left him; it was always the same. Sherlock needed John. John couldn't let Sherlock leave him. So, he needed to keep Sherlock safe at all costs.

John started to walk away from the grave. How could Sherlock do this to him? There was no fucking way he was a fraud. No one could pretend to be that brilliant. It was impossible. There had to be some reason.

A clash of thunder made John jump. He realized that darker clouds were rolling in. _Good, _he thought. If a tear escaped him, no one would notice. He wasn't much of a crier. Or much in the way of displaying emotions. He could bottle everything up. It was easy to say he'd process it later. It was a defensive mechanism he'd had since his youth. That's why when he lost his temper, it was a sight to behold. He'd go on for hours, slowly releasing all the emotions that had built up. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he didn't care.

He was far beyond caring at this point. Losing various family members, pets, comrades, even patients, was nothing compared to losing Sherlock. It was like every cell of his body was missing something. Most mornings when he woke up for work, he wondered why he was still on earth. It was pointless.

He felt his phone vibrate. It was a text from Mycroft. About three months ago, Mycroft had gotten him a job in the government. He still didn't quite know what he did; he followed orders, just like any good solider. They'd be simple jobs, but obviously ones that Mycroft needed someone he trusted. He didn't trust his own secret service, but the flatmate of his brother could be trusted.

_The car is waiting. Further instructions inside. And try not to break any noses this time. -MH_

Sighing, John climbed in the car. One time, he was frustrated and punched the wrong guy. So, maybe he broke a nose, but how was he supposed to know that the guy was an undercover agent for some enemy country?

Looking around, John spotted the envelope on the seat. Sherlock was right; Mycroft never talked in person if he could avoid it. The envelope was unusually thin. Inside, there were only two words and two letters. The handwriting was unmistakeable.

_I'm sorry. SH_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock opened his mouth, but thought better of it and close it. John had been fiery hot with his temper, but then it switched. He was ice cold. That terrified Sherlock.

"Just, please, let's sit down."

"Fine."

Sherlock watched. John had his cane again. His shirt was dirty and his socks were mismatched. His nails were chipped and his hair hasn't been cut in weeks. His razor needed to be changed. Overall, he wasn't doing well. Anyone could have seen that.

John sat in on of the chairs, as Sherlock sat in the other.

"Sherlock-"

"Let me talk, please?" Sherlock watched and saw no signs that John would continue. "Thanks. I need you, more than I've ever needed anything. You're more calming than any drug and you gave me something to believe it. You've change me, John. In ways I don't even fully understand."

It was painful to admit he wasn't perfect. He hoped John would see that.

"I just can't believe your brilliant mind could only figure out a way to save you and let me know you lived. I'm not that bad of an actor, am I?"

"I wanted to, until we realized that a single slip up could get you killed. Or Mrs. Hudson. I couldn't bear the thought of a world without you."

"So you let me suffer instead?"

"He had no choice." Mycroft suddenly appeared. John gave a little jump, but Sherlock had heard the soft crunch of carpet.

"And big brother-"

"Regrets causing any pain. Doctor Watson, you can be mad or angry at us. But, you've been the best thing that ever happened for my brother. I couldn't let you leave him"

"If I'm so fucking good for him, Mycroft, then why the hell didn't you bring him to me sooner? And my safety is not an acceptable answer. Do you know the hell I've been through?"

Mycroft paused before leaving the room. John gave a little grin, as did Sherlock. His friend had just won an argument with the most important man in the government. He did pick the good one.

"I can only image it was worse than mine. It wasn't easy for me, John. There were nights I hacked into the cameras just to check on you. No one has been or ever will be as important to me as you are."

John put his arms over his chest. Mycroft told him they could never truly return to where they were, but maybe they could be friends again.

"I am really nothing more than a drug to you?"

"You are so much more than that. You know I am bad at emotion things."

"Just speak from your heart. Remember, that night in the pool, when I was strapped up to all those bombs? You-"

"I've had nightmares about that. Never before had I had one. My dreams were so infrequent, along with sleep in general, that I never had one. Now, each time I sleep, I see you blowing up, Moriarty laughing, and I run towards you. I run and I run. When we were in the same place, I only had to wake up to know you were alive. Or I could stand outside your room and hear your ragged breathing, knowing you were having your own nightmare."

"I cannot count the number of times I've seen you jump."

A sudden realization hit Sherlock. Those dreams he had, that emptiness he felt in those dreams, had been John's reality.

"I-"

"Now you get, don't you? That fear you feel in your dreams, I lived. I don't know if you can understand how much pain I was in."

"I have to agree. I know you most likely won't care, but I am so, so sorry. If you died, I don't believe I could last six months."

"I don't know how I did."


	3. Chapter 3

John didn't know the apartment he was at. It was big and expensive-looking. Mycroft's, perhaps. The driver of the car parked and opened his door. "He said to go up the stairs in the left corner and then knock three times on the door."

Only Mycroft would be so paranoid. John followed the directions and knocked.

There was a shuffle and he heard the peephole open and shut quickly. The door opened.

It was him. Sherlock.

As if he knew John would freak out, he quickly pulled John inside and locked the door. John looked up and down. He could not believe it. He had felt the pulse of that man and grieve for him. Did Sherlock care so little for him? He probably just needed John for a case or something and send him back to 221B Baker Street.

There were so many ways John had thought about opening the conversation. But the least elegant came out first. "How the fuck could you do this to me?"

Sherlock stared at John and motioned for him to come further into the apartment.

"No. I want to know this fucking minute how the fuck you lived!" John could feel every emotion since Sherlock died bubbling up. He did nothing to stop it. He had every damn right to be angry.

"To save you."

"To _save _me?"

"Just come in, and I'll explain."

"No. I want to know how you can abandon your only friend and leave him alone. Do you have fucking clue as to the pain and trauma I had to go through without you? You fucking bastard!" John felt like he was growing taller. It always did, when he boiled over. It was an amazing feeling, yelling like this.

"You selfish bastard. I finally thought you were human and had some emotions, when you jumped! But no, you're not human enough to die. How the fuck did you survive, by the way? I saw you jump! I felt your fucking wrist and there was no fucking pulse!"

"Are you done?" Sherlock asked in such a quite voice, one that John thought might have even had a touch of emotion to it. It was so unexpected John nodded.

"I'm not going to say you shouldn't be mad. But you saw that Moriarty's body was found on the roof, right? He had killers on you. They only way to save you was to die."

John just glared.

"I've been helped Mycroft break up his ring. We've gotten most of it, but that's not important. They needed to see you sad, to know that I was lying six feet under."

"It's pretty bloody clear you're six feet above."

"More than that, John. Anyways, I hate myself for what I did. But I couldn't let you die."

"Wasn't that my choice to make?"

"I couldn't live without you, John."

"Neither could I."

"You're still here."

"Let's be clear. What I am is not living. I am breathing and doing whatever shit your brother tells me to. I am not saving lives or protecting my country in a way I can see. My whole existence seems meaningless to me. I live, but I am not alive. You gave it to me and then you took it away."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock opened his mouth, but thought better of it and close it. John had been fiery hot with his temper, but then it switched. He was ice cold. That terrified Sherlock.

"Just, please, let's sit down."

"Fine."

Sherlock watched. John had his cane again. His shirt was dirty and his socks were mismatched. His nails were chipped and his hair hasn't been cut in weeks. His razor needed to be changed. Overall, he wasn't doing well. Anyone could have seen that.

John sat in on of the chairs, as Sherlock sat in the other.

"Sherlock-"

"Let me talk, please?" Sherlock watched and saw no signs that John would continue. "Thanks. I need you, more than I've ever needed anything. You're more calming than any drug and you gave me something to believe it. You've change me, John. In ways I don't even fully understand."

It was painful to admit he wasn't perfect. He hoped John would see that.

"I just can't believe your brilliant mind could only figure out a way to save you and let me know you lived. I'm not that bad of an actor, am I?"

"I wanted to, until we realized that a single slip up could get you killed. Or Mrs. Hudson. I couldn't bear the thought of a world without you."

"So you let me suffer instead?"

"He had no choice." Mycroft suddenly appeared. John gave a little jump, but Sherlock had heard the soft crunch of carpet.

"And big brother-"

"Regrets causing any pain. Doctor Watson, you can be mad or angry at us. But, you've been the best thing that ever happened for my brother. I couldn't let you leave him"

"If I'm so fucking good for him, Mycroft, then why the hell didn't you bring him to me sooner? And my safety is not an acceptable answer. Do you know the hell I've been through?"

Mycroft paused before leaving the room. John gave a little grin, as did Sherlock. His friend had just won an argument with the most important man in the government. He did pick the good one.

"I can only image it was worse than mine. It wasn't easy for me, John. There were nights I hacked into the cameras just to check on you. No one has been or ever will be as important to me as you are."

John put his arms over his chest. Mycroft told him they could never truly return to where they were, but maybe they could be friends again.

"I am really nothing more than a drug to you?"

"You are so much more than that. You know I am bad at emotion things."

"Just speak from your heart. Remember, that night in the pool, when I was strapped up to all those bombs? You-"

"I've had nightmares about that. Never before had I had one. My dreams were so infrequent, along with sleep in general, that I never had one. Now, each time I sleep, I see you blowing up, Moriarty laughing, and I run towards you. I run and I run. When we were in the same place, I only had to wake up to know you were alive. Or I could stand outside your room and hear your ragged breathing, knowing you were having your own nightmare."

"I cannot count the number of times I've seen you jump."

A sudden realization hit Sherlock. Those dreams he had, that emptiness he felt in those dreams, had been John's reality.

"I-"

"Now you get, don't you? That fear you feel in your dreams, I lived. I don't know if you can understand how much pain I was in."

"I have to agree. I know you most likely won't care, but I am so, so sorry. If you died, I don't believe I could last six months."

"I don't know how I did."


	5. Chapter 5

He really didn't. How was John still alive? When he came back, his sister needed him. She gave him something to live for. If he killed himself like he wanted to, she would find solace in the bottle. He couldn't do that.

But who would care if he killed himself? Why was he still alive? He didn't really believe Sherlock was still alive. It was a hope, a prayer to some god.

He sat there, pondering the great mystery that was why he lived.

"I think I need some time."

"That's fine, but I was wondering if I could go back to our apartment. Mycroft thinks too loud."

John had to think. He'd grown used to not having fingers next to the carrots or eyes near the olives. But he need Sherlock.

"Fine. It's not like I'd see you anyways. But what about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, she'll take it just fine. It's not the first time I've faked my death."

"WHAT? Why didn't she tell me that?"

"Well, usually I leave some sort of thing for her to find, or Mycroft will tell her when he sends the rent check."

"Why-"

"- didn't see tell you? Because you told her I was dead. If anyone knew for sure if I had faked my death, she thought it would be you."

"I suppose I did too. Now, are you coming?"

"Anything to get out of here."

Author's Note: Sorry about this being a short chapter. Will hopeful update soon.


	6. Chapter 6

Awkward was one word Sherlock rarely used. To him, it mean that he was like everyone else and succumbed to normal feelings. However, the ride back to 221B was awkward. John was clearly still mad at him. Sherlock didn't know what to say. This normally wouldn't bother him, but he liked talking to John.

Finally, after paying the cab driver (who didn't have anything that pointed to him being a serial killer), they were home. Home. Sherlock hadn't used that word before. He used to call it living space, the apartment, 221B, but never home. Home was a word for somewhere one felt safe.

They climbed the stairs and went it. Sherlock had seen it on the cameras, of course, but there was something that relaxed in his mind. Maybe it was the way John threw his key and still hit the same spot on the bowl he put them in, or the way it smelled. Maybe it was just being back with John.

"Sit."

There was a coldness in John's voice. Sherlock had no choice but to obey. As much as he loved to push limits, he knew where to stop. Most of the time. Okay, hardly ever. He knew where to stop with John, but normally decided to ignore it.

"You fucked up. I understand why you did, but still."

"I know. And I know we can't go back to the way things were."

"Damn right." Sherlock noted how much more John swore when he was passionate about something. Or was it because he was angry?

"But I still need you. I need you at crime scenes and -"

"And how will we work for the police? Lastrade was at your funeral. I doubt he'll forget that you, you know, _died._"

Sherlock had originally planned to move to another part of the country to be unknown, but he realized it wouldn't be fair to ask John to do that for him.

"Have I done the impossible? Have I stumped the great Sherlock Holmes?" John gave an annoy smile.

"Only momentarily, I assure you." Sherlock began to think. He couldn't just change his face. They would be suspicious of anyone who acted like him. But he needed a challenge. Murders were something that kept him occupied and sane.

"But, regardless of that, I don't know how I can trust you. You broke my heart. I thought I knew death. I've been around it so much and I've stopped it. But nothing has ever compared to the emptiness and loneliness I left after you died."

"John, I wish I could say I felt the same way-"

"I know, you're practically asexual."

"No, no! That's not what I meant!" For many years, that had been true. He'd tried it once with a girl in his chemistry class. It didn't impress him too much and he'd left it alone after that. He was the master of his body. It didn't have those sorts of urges.

"What I felt is nothing compared the 'hell' I put you through. I just relaized all those long nights of wishing you come and tell me to stop playing violin and sleep is nothing, nothing, compared to what you had. I don't feel something sexual, necessarily. But I feel something for you. Something that I cannot name."

"Scared, Sherlock?" When did John stop being the guy who complimented him and turn into one who stood up to him? Must have been around the H.O.U.N.D. Case.

"No. I honestly don't know what it is."

"Maybe go to your mind palace. I'm sure the word is in there somewhere."

"I haven't been to my mind palace since I died. It pained me, for some reason."

"Well, to diagnose your feeling, let's start with that."

Sherlock did not like that idea. He may have told a white lie. He knew exactly what it was he felt, but Sherlock Holmes did not fall in love. He was above that sort of thing. But if it got John back...

"It's here, home. 221B Baker Street. For a while, it was a pirate ship. But then when you came along, it changed. I cannot explain how tiresome it was to move everything from one palace to another. But it was something to pass the time while you slept."

"That's a start. Now, why do think it hurt you think of home?"

"I don't know. Aren't you supposed to tell me?"


	7. Chapter 7

John never had been in love before. Sure, in his youth, there was a girl, Georgina Thomas. She was sweet and pretty. They dated for two years. But when they went to different collages, they broke up. All the women he dated since never had that something that would make John want to propose.

When Sherlock jumped, after a long list of curse words, was the thought, "I never told him I love him." That was when John knew why he would take a bullet for Sherlock. It wasn't friendship or comradeship. It was because when he came home after a long day of work and no matter how many body parts were in the fridge, Sherlock would want to talk to him. He'd babble on about something and make John forgot about the day.

He didn't know if he wanted Sherlock as a boyfriend. Sex and Sherlock didn't really match. But Sherlock was his. When Mycroft suggested something about Sherlock having feelings for Irene, it hurt. Sherlock was his. He was Sherlock's. and now John wanted Sherlock to admit that.

Or may Sherlock felt nothing more than friendship. If that.

"No, I'm not supposed to. This is for you to work out your emotions like a big boy."

"Sheet. Buckingham Palace."

"You were just being stubborn then."

"But-"

"Yes, your arse was fairly exposed. Now, what does it mean when you think of something you don't have and feel pain?"

Sherlock looked stumped. John was enjoying it way too much. If he was right, Sherlock felt something back. And surely the great detective knew what he felt. He was just being stubborn, again. But unless he admitted it, John wasn't going to tell him.

"You can't move back in unless you tell me."

"John, you can't honestly expect that I can say that. I've never even liked some one before, let alone-" Sherlock clapped his hands over his mouth. At times like these, John wished he could read Sherlock's mind.

Then he realized he wouldn't understand it.


	8. Chapter 8

_Stop. Think. Don't get caught up in emotions. _

Had that been a lesson of Mycroft's? Or his father's? Or even his own? Sherlock didn't know. All he knew is that feelings for other people were not something he had. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was kind to him and he liked that, but she was like a nanny to him. Someone he never could believe liked him because they were paid. Mycroft was an obligatory like.

John wasn't.

John was his friend. Sherlock's first and sole friend. At first, he just assume what he was feeling was merely what friends felt for each other. But then he realized friends generally don't think about what their friends' lips would feel like. Would it be different from what's-her-name? (He didn't bother thinking of her name. She didn't matter to him)

Then, he figured he was attracted to John. Maybe it was the way his fingers were so delicate or his eyes. John was someone who was broken, just like Sherlock. Sherlock had been working cold turkey, as Mycroft threaten to kill anyone who sold to him. He needed something to calm his mind. John was far more broken, but they shared the same road.

It wasn't until the night Mycroft was gone. He'd been staying around at night to make sure Sherlock didn't do anything stupid. But he had some save-the-world-from-total-chaos thing that couldn't wait. Sherlock took the time to look at his brother's books. Most were uninteresting, but there was a brain book. One chapter was on how people fall in love. Most of it was useless, but it planted the idea in his mind.

"Just say it, Sherlock."

"I like you." It was close enough to the truth. Maybe John would accept it. It was more than Sherlock had ever admitted before.

"I think there's more to it." Why was John good at this stuff? How could he pick up on things he didn't know?

He took a deep breath and said as quietly as possible, "I might love you."

John had a big, silly grin on his face. "Sorry, didn't quite catch that."

"You heard me."

"I did. But I was wondering if you could say it again."

"Why? So you can tape it and play to for everyone in the police and Mycroft?"

"No. But welcome home!" John stood up and held out his hand for a handshake. Well, two could play this game. Sherlock bent down and hugged John.

He debated if a kiss would automatically allow him to win.


	9. Chapter 9

Toying with Sherlock was one thing. Getting him to admit his feelings was another. But getting hugged by him?

That was not in John's plan.

It was hard for John to contain his excitement when Sherlock said he loved him. He was about to say he love him back, when John thought better of it. He could hold out on saying it, to make Sherlock worry that he messed up. He'd have to call Mycroft and admit to him, too.

That was going to be his plan until he felt something on his lips.

Sherlock-fucking-Holmes was kissing him. Was the universe ending? Had aliens come? Why would he be kissing John?

John was the experienced one. He should be the leader for things like this. But his lips told his mind to shut up and enjoy it. Like a good solider, he listened. He debated deepening the kiss, but decided to not press his luck. Besides, oxygen was kind of important.

Their lips separated, but Sherlock leaned so their foreheads were touching. "I think you have something to tell me, John."

"Hm?"

"Do I need to kiss you again to get it out of you?"

John pretended to debate it. He reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down and kissed him. There was something in the kiss unlike one he'd ever had before. Was it the unsureness on Sherlock's end? Was it because of how much he cared?

Pulling back, John smiled. "I might love you back."

Author's Note: And that's where I leave you for now


	10. Chapter 10

Whenever someone died, there were things you hated about them that you missed. Mrs. Hudson hated finding body parts in the fridge. But now, when as a landlady, she put food in John's fridge, only normal things greeted her. It may have been more sanitary, but there was something missing.

He was better than a son. Sherlock didn't feel the need to be nice to her, like he did his brother. She was his landlady and they had that sort of relationship. He solved crimes, she cleaned. Very proper, wasn't it?

But recently, she worried about John. Of course, she felt the pain of his death; however, after all the times she grieved for him, only to find out he was living, there was little left for her to cry over. Part of her assumed he was still out there, doing good. That was only a small part. Mostly, she figured since John believed he was dead, he was, well, dead.

John wasn't doing well. He had been hardly eating, leaving most of the things she brought him untouched. He'd lost some weight and he didn't even have a proper job. Mycroft pulled some strings. When she'd called the elder Holmes to tell him off about the job he gave John, he gave some sort of "it's-for-global-peace" thing. Next time, Mrs. Hudson would have to go in person. Then, he'd see her glare.

Her hip gave a little bit of pain as she climbed the stairs to 221B. She needed her herbal soothers. Maybe she should put them in her tea and sit with John. He had been quite lonely without Sherlock.

She opened the door and gave a little yelp. There, in front of her, was Sherlock. Not only was he alive, but he was currently kissing a certain doctor. A tiny part of her mind pointed out that she had been right; they _were_ a couple. But mainly her mind was trying to grasp the fact that he was back.

"SHERLOCK!"


	11. Chapter 11

_Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us? _

He had told his little brother that caring was not an advantage. Mycroft still believed that. But there was something nice in caring. Something that made life easier. Just because something wasn't an advantage didn't mean that it wasn't something you wanted.

Duty had been all the love the Holmes brothers received. They were there to continue the family line. Get a job, serve the country, marry a respectable girl, have a son, die. Of course, it couldn't be that easy with the family curse.

Their father once tried to trace it back, but he jumped off the roof of the Holmes Estate before he found anything out. Everyone in the family had to deal with depression. Sometimes, like with Sherlock, it just showed up. He had maniac depression, where he'd get highs and lows. The highs were additive, so Sherlock refused treatment. Another thing about a Holmes: they all had the ability to get addict to anything and everything. Their mother couldn't go more than two hours without playing a computer version of Scrabble.

Mycroft sometimes felt his younger brother got lucky. He just got it one day. Mycroft's, on the other hand, happened in his youth and plagued him since. Sometimes he thought it started when their father jumped, when he was only ten. But that hurt far less than when he was seventeen. Mycroft was hanging out with his friends, Emerson Allwright and Asher Kerrich, when they started talking about who they liked. Emerson was saying he hated Ophelia, the girl his parents wanted him to marry. He liked some poor girl far more.

Asher got quite and said he didn't like girls. Mycroft grinned at said he didn't really either. They looked into each other's eyes and knew that they both felt something more than friendship for each other. The next few months were bliss. They were young and in love. The school year soon came to an end. The last night, they exchanged small gold rings, to be worn on the right hand. They couldn't marry, but it was enough for them. They spent their first night together.

Mycroft and Asher sent letters to each other and talked on the phone once a week. Until, Asher's father realized the person on the other end of the phone who his son was whispering sweet nothingness to was a guy. His father had never been very stable and he went insane. That night, he killed Asher and took his own life.

Mycroft didn't hear about it until the next morning in the papers. It was the only time in his life he cried. That night, he took solace with a Swiss Army knife.

Even twenty-odd years later, Mycroft cared for Asher. He could never forget him. Asher had wanted to do good in the world. Mycroft wanted to try to honor his love and went into the government. He worked his way up, but know he didn't even know if he was doing good. He would order the death of someone without even blinking. Sometimes, Mycroft would wonder if he had lost his soul that night. He didn't feel anything; he was so empty.

Sherlock was no help. He could mess around and still end up happy. That boy had all the luck in the world. Since Doctor Watson came along. Sherlock was stable. He wasn't going off and trying to find a new drug or high. He even was considering treatment for his depression.

Asher was his savior. And he died.

_Why are the ghosts of my past haunting me? _Perhaps, it was because Sherlock was back home. He wasn't living with Mycroft anymore. Of course, he was still under heavy surveillance. Nearby cameras were always pointed in to 221B Baker Street. Like right then. They showed Sherlock and Doctor Watson kissing.

Did the Polish really - kissing?

_Kissing? _

Sherlock knew how to kiss?


	12. Chapter 12

His mind was not whirling, it was slowing down. The last time Sherlock kissed someone like this, he was analyzing it. Such as why people did this. But with John, it felt different. His mind was just thinking that it felt nice.

_SHERLOCK!_

Their landlady (not housekeeper) was standing in the door way. There was a bag on the floor, with some tea and milk in it. She obviously knew the contents of the fridge better than Sherlock ever did.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?" Sherlock said, with a smile. He slowly untangled his arms from John (when did they go there?).

"Sherlock-"

"Yes, yes. I am sorry for causing you pain and not letting you know I was alive."

"How could you do that to John? And since when have you two made it official?"

Sherlock glanced at John. What had made sense to him three years ago didn't make sense now.

"Mrs. Hudson, we aren't official. We were just sharing our first kissing when you came in." John gave a little smile after speaking.

"Technically, it was about the fourth kiss." Sherlock wanted the facts right. He and John had kissed four times. Four glorious times that calmed his mind. Obviously, Sherlock would need to experiment, which would require many, many more trials.

"Well, I'll leave you two lovers alone, then." She turned and shut the door.

Both turned towards each other and smiled. John's eyes seemed to say _that was easy. _They started walking towards one another, until both their phones vibrated.

_How romantic. -MH_


	13. Chapter 13

Sometimes, Greg wanted nothing more than a Holmes. He would love for Sherlock to come back and help solve their cases. Mycroft, on the other hand, he'd love to have a date with.

There was more than one reason why Greg allowed Sherlock to help with cases. At first, he was suspicious; how could anyone figure out the murderer by the scent of an expensive perfume, the shade of lipstick on the victim's neck, and the shatter pattern of glass? It just seemed impossible.

But then he was kidnapped by Mycroft. He explained that he was Sherlock's elder (and wiser) brother. Sherlock was to help the police, as per his request. Greg, obviously, wasn't going to just take orders from some kidnapper. With a grin, Mycroft explained in few words that he was the government; his word was better than the law. Still unconvinced, Greg had started to leave. Mycroft tapped his umbrella three times and the door he was walking towards closed.

"Any proof of my honesty would inevitably lead to your death. I took the liberty of looking at your file. What would your mother say about you and your wife sleeping in separate bedrooms for the past few nights? Of course, you haven't called her up in months; does she even know you married?" Mycroft gave a chilling smiling.

"What, you have cameras on me? Good to know I'm important enough. Finally, I'm getting some recognition!"

"Getting a but cocky now, aren't we?"

"It's rather unfair that you know so much about me and all I know if is that you're Sherlock's older brother. Why exactly am I here?"

"You seem to be a man who is willing to accept help. You aren't guided by pride; it's the case that matters, the families of the victims. My brother can help you and you keep him out of trouble."

"So, I'm going to nanny a genius?"

"You could put it that way."

With another tap of the umbrella, the door opened. The girl who was always on her mobile came to fetch him. That was how Greg met Mycroft.

Greg decided that it was his job to infuriate this man. Sherlock did a decent job, but not quite what Greg wanted. It was fun. Sherlock gave Greg his number. He reasoned that's where the bothering really started.

Mycroft would always text back about things which were rather personal. Sometimes, though, it was helpful having someone spy on you. You never had to worry about remembering picking up milk or butter on your way home, he would remind you.

They had a lovely friendship. As Greg started to know Sherlock better, the better he felt having someone back him up. No one knew he had been ordered by the government to have Sherlock work with them. That's why he was careful about calling him up; if he helped too often, it would seem that Greg couldn't do job.

But he was gone. He took part of John with him. There was nothing worse than watching John slowly die. He finally found happiness, a job he liked. He and Greg could to the pub, share some drinks, and be normal. Well, as normal as anyone could be when they know a Holmes.

Countless times had thought about Greg texting Mycroft to see how John was, but it was just as hard for him. Mycroft, the poor man, was just has heartbroken, it seemed. He had withdrawn even more and his texts stopped sounding cheerful or teasing. It was almost like he knew someone was watching him type, as they were no longer about the things Greg liked about having a stalker. Instead of reminders about milk, it was about who the murderer was. How he could get that from the case files was beyond him.

He was a different man altogether. Greg wanted to help him, to fix him. He controlled so much and he needed someone to watch out for him. Sherlock had John. Mycroft would have Greg.


	14. Chapter 14

It took a few days to understand it. It being Sherlock being back, that Sherlock liked him, that Sherlock was alive. He'd tried to explain how he survived, but John would cut him off. Part of him died that day; he never wanted to relive it. Sherlock didn't quite understand it all the way. John got it. Sherlock wanted someone to share his brilliance with; Mycroft didn't care about how clever his plan had been.

"Still, you need a job," John said, during breakfast. Sherlock had a cup of tea in front of him, but wasn't drinking it. He was trying to be a bit more normal. John just liked that he was sitting at the table with him, without heads or thumbs in the way.

"You should talk to Lestrade."

"Me? You're a big boy, now, Sherlock. You have to face the consequences of your actions and say you're sorry to him."

"But that's so tedious. I've already figured out several of his cases recently."

"Do I even want to know how?"

"Mycroft."

"Right, the government. The all-powerful and all-knowing. Speaking of, can we get those cameras off of our apartment?"

Apparently, the thought of his brother not looking over his shoulder hadn't crossed Sherlock's mind. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders and pulled out his phone. A few taps later and Sherlock set it down.

They returned to a comfortable silence. That was the sign of true friendship, John believed. If you had to fill the air with words, you weren't good enough friends. Silence was truly golden.

A knock on the door interrupted the silence. John went to get it. The door opened to reveal Mycroft. He walked in, umbrella in hand.

"The cameras stay on."

"Only if you get Sherlock back his job."

"How?"

"Aren't you all _friendly _with Greg?" John and Greg went to the pub as often as they could. Greg was perhaps the only thing that kept John alive. When Sherlock was alive (he never died, John reminded himself), Greg would talk about Mycroft's 'stalking' of him. Greg had said one night, after maybe one to many, how he just wanted a good shag with Mycroft. John was very surprised. Greg, after all, had been married to a woman.

"I get attracted to people, John, not a specific sex," Greg had said a few days later. John got that; he never really considered a guy before Sherlock. It seemed to John that the Holmes brothers didn't know their feelings.

"Doctor Watson, what _do_ you mean?"

"I mean you talk to him quite a lot. I'm sure you can work out some sort of deal."

"Mycroft and Lestrade talk to each other?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Course they do. Didn't you wonder how he showed up at Dartmoor?"

Sherlock just gave John a look of disapproval.

"Fine, I will phone him." Mycroft pulled out his phone and pressed one button. _So Greg's on speed dial, _John thought

"Greg, we need to talk... Yes... No... When do you get off work? ...seven? ... I'll send the car around... Good bye."

John felt his phone vibrate. It was a text from Greg.

_Date with M! Holy shit! -GL_


End file.
